Distracted

I have been distracted.

I discovered this morning, after much searching, that I had put the tin of biscuits into the vegetable drawer in the fridge. This afternoon, somewhat inexplicably, I started to make my chai for work in the blender instead of my flask. I did not even notice that I was behaving peculiarly until I discovered that I could not balance the teaspoon across the top to hold the string of the teabag.

Worst of all, though, was the curtain I made for the back window of Lucy’s car, which when we tried it, turned out to be about a foot too narrow. I do not know what I was thinking about, not measurements, certainly. It is a jolly good job I am going to go and have some sewing lessons soon.

Lucy was very kind about it, and undertook to dismantle and resew it herself when I went to work, but it was plain to me by then that I have got a small outbreak of dementia today.

I spent most of the day making the curtains for her car windows in order to turn her car into a miniature camper van. She has done much of this herself, and it is rather splendid, in a compact sort of way, rather like those sleeping tubes that they give to people in Japanese airport hotels. I can’t think of a single reason why one should not stay in these, but my very soul revolts at the thought. 

In fact Lucy’s camping-car is considerably nicer than this. They have put a carpet down, and it is really quite welcoming and bright.

The other curtains that I made were more or less the right shape, although they really were only more or less, if you imagine substituting a large frying pan for an umbrella on a wet day you will get the idea. The principle was the same but they were not really right.

Anyway, mostly they kept out the daylight and so were close enough, but the back one was rubbish.

I gave up then. Lucy said that she would make the rest, about which I was profoundly relieved, and came out to work instead. There are plenty of opportunities for dementia at work, but I thought that if I did not talk too much to anybody, and drove slowly and carefully I would probably be all right.

I did not really want to go out to work, because we are almost at the end of the children’s visit, and I am feeling a bit doleful. The house is very quiet when they have gone.

They were bouncing cheerfully about the kitchen when I made a brief visit home this evening. Lucy was cooking dinner and Oliver was bringing in the washing. They had a film to watch, they explained, which they thought would go well with meatballs and pasta.

It all smelled very good. I was mildly regretful about being obliged to go to work and eat cheese sandwiches, which was my personal catering arrangement, but given my current performance probably it was safest not to do anything too thrilling. 

I have just discovered that my own small mishaps fade into mere trivia compared to the Peppers’ adventures of the day, which concluded in the hospital having dropped a paving slab on one of their big toes, which broke. The toe broke, that is, not the paving slab, at least as far as I am aware. I forgot to enquire about the outcome for the paving slab, I hope it has not been wasted.

They sent me a picture from Accident and Emergency, of a very satisfactory-looking blackened toe. Obviously it is horrid to bash one’s toe, but it is always disappointing when inspection reveals no obvious injuries, merely an invisible agony. This toe looks as though it got in the way of a steamroller, and I think that I might be dog-emptying alone for some time.

I suppose at least this will mean that I can concentrate on Roger Poopy and his misdeeds. He was an idiot again this morning.

Have a picture of some domesticity.